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The Fount of Every Stressing

The desert land is my promised land
the new world is my garden of leaving
the manna from heaven is my king’s feast
the water spilling from the rock is my unsettled refreshment-
and yet I’ll complain.

The coat of many colors is my technicolor cutthroat
the burning bush is my desire’s flame out
The “know us” ark is my cruel ship
the torn commandments is my soul’s delight-
and yet I’ll complain.

The first day is my created girth
the second day is my fittest survival
the third day is my operation desperation
the last day is my resting day-
and yet I’ll curse you
(because I can’t see me).

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About R. Ward

A husband, father, teacher, and struggling man of God.

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